


Nights Were Mainly Made For Saying Things That You Can't Say Tomorrow

by Tiofrean



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Healer!Aragorn, Hurt!Faramir, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscarriage Mentioned, Misunderstandings, Post-War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23160868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: How did they get here? Aragorn couldn’t help but wonder, sitting on the edge of the bed, the half-darkness around him shifting with shadows as the candle flickered. Faramir was lying under a heavy sheep-skin, one of his hands stretched out, prone on the white sheet. There was a dark spot on the soft linen, right next to the edge of Faramir’s palm, and Aragorn didn’t have to look any closer to know it was a drop of dried blood, overlooked by one of the maids in their haste to make the prince presentable for his arrival.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54





	Nights Were Mainly Made For Saying Things That You Can't Say Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> I had a thought and I had to write it out. And I had a song in my head... and it was the inspiration for this. MermaidSheenaz looked it up <3 (Hannon le, hir nin!) 
> 
> Enjoy! <3

_How did they get here?_ Aragorn couldn’t help but wonder, sitting on the edge of the bed, the half-darkness around him shifting with shadows as the candle flickered. Faramir was lying under a heavy sheep-skin, one of his hands stretched out, prone on the white sheet. There was a dark spot on the soft linen, right next to the edge of Faramir’s palm, and Aragorn didn’t have to look any closer to know it was a drop of dried blood, overlooked by one of the maids in their haste to make the prince presentable for his arrival. 

He cringed, thinking again about the state he had found Faramir in, about the ghostly pallor of his skin, about his feverish eyes. It had only been a day, and the Prince of Ithilien was already making progress, his cheeks no longer pale, his breathing even and deeper than the shallow gasps Aragorn had encountered upon his coming to Emyn Arnen. 

_Prince Faramir has been ambushed by orcs on his trip to Henneth Annun, his state is dire. A skilled healer is needed._

The letter could have as well been written in Faramir’s blood, for all the scare it had brought him. The king hadn't hesitated even for a moment, mounting Brego while still shouting orders at Imrahil to rule in his stead, his mind turned firmly to Ithilien. The trip had been swift, Brego’s hooves carrying him lightly over mud and snow alike, almost as if the horse itself had known just what turmoil brewed inside its rider. In no time at all, wooden doors of a very modern-looking house had greeted him, Beregond waiting outside and welcoming him with a deep bow and fright in his eyes. He had tried to explain what exactly had happened to Faramir, but Aragorn hadn’t been able to listen to anything beyond the briefest of descriptions of his wounds. 

_A slash from an orcish sword._

It wouldn’t have been that dire, had it not been for a devastating chain of events that had seemingly deprived the prince’s life of all joy and subsequently caused him to be more susceptible to failings of the body. Of all that, Aragorn knew little, for Faramir had been infuriatingly brief in his messages, focusing only on formal matters. When he had enquired about anything outside their respectable posts, it had usually concerned his uncle or one of those of his former rangers who were currently stationed in Minas Tirith. The king hated it, despised the brevity and the officiality of those letters, but, remembering the look on Faramir’s face when they had last seen each other, he had forbidden _himself_ from asking for more personal news of Faramir’s life. 

A small grunt tore him out of his thoughts, and the king jerked his head up, his eyes leaving the blood stain they had been staring at to look at Faramir. The prince had his eyes closed still, but his head turned a little, a small frown creasing his forehead.  
“Faramir?” He asked hopefully, finally giving in to the need and grasping the hand. It had been outstretched towards him, almost unconsciously beckoning him closer, and the relief that washed over him when those fingers moved slightly in the clasp of his own made him dizzy. 

Another small sound, nothing concrete yet, but with the way Faramir’s body still fought the fever and the pain, Aragorn wouldn’t expect anything beyond that. And yet, a moment later, those beautiful, blue eyes fluttered open and stared at him in confusion, as if uncomprehending of his existence in the same room.  
“Dead?” Faramir’s voice was raspy, too quiet and weak, and the dreadful meaning took time to register in Aragorn’s mind.  
“No, my friend, you are not dead, nor shall you be.” 

A barely there nod, a sigh, and the prince was out again. Aragorn stayed as he was, keeping his watch like a hawk, studiously ignoring the bloodstain on the bed in favor of watching Faramir sleep. 

-&-

“Why didn’t you write sooner?” Aragorn asked, pacing next to the bed. Faramir watched him with half-lidded eyes, his tired gaze following the king’s steps. He had awoken two hours later, and it was a small miracle that the candles were still burning. Aragorn wouldn’t want any of the maids to come in here to bring him more, nor did he wish to deprive himself of the view of his cherished prince.  
“You’re angry.” Faramir stated, quietly, the tone of his voice still too frail to even resemble his usual spirit.  
“I am not angry!” The king seethed, turning sharply, his eyes ablaze. When his gaze fell on the bed and the too-skinny figure lying upon it, when he took in the fragile appearance of the hand still resting on the white sheet, he paused, his shoulders slumping. “I am not angry at _you,”_ he amended, lowering his stare with a sigh. “I’m angry at the situation… you _should have_ written to me.”  
“I didn’t think it would be this bad…” 

Faramir’s words trailed off and bitter laughter filled the chamber, Aragorn’s body shaking with it, though there was no merriment, only mad helplessness.  
“An _orcish_ blade, dirty and possibly _poisoned._ A long and deep cut right above your waist, and you wish to _tell me-”_ _  
__“I’m sorry.”_

The shakiness of the words was what made Aragorn stop and rethink his behavior. Some healer he was, boiling over at his friend and adding to his hurt when what he so obviously needed was peace and quiet. Elrond would have had his hide if he had ever acted thus in Imladris.

With another sigh, Aragorn strode forward, reclaiming his place on the edge of the bed, his eyes intent on his charge.  
“Nay, I am sorry. I should not have gone there, certainly not now.” He watched as Faramir frowned, tilting his head to the side to better look at him. His moves were still slow, nothing more than an inclination of his head here or a slight movement of a hand there, and the king could tell that he was still in a world of pain despite the herbs he had forced into him upon his awakening.  
“You are right, though, my king. I should have done something sooner…” 

The quiet resignation with which the words left him was like a punch to the gut for Aragorn. He shook his head.  
“Let us not dwell on that now, though. How do you feel?”  
“Tired.” And he looked so, too, with his eyes red and misty, with his limbs weak and staying wherever they landed. Aragorn nodded.  
“You should sleep. I would like you to drink this first, though. It will help you heal.” And, having said that, the king reached for a cup of herbal essence he had previously prepared, taking it from the nightstand and bringing it to Faramir’s lips. The prince drank with small sips, slowly draining half of the cup, sighing contentedly when he was done. 

“What about you?” He asked, once Aragorn helped him lie down again, making sure he was as comfortable as he could get.  
“I’ll keep watch over you.” _Like a healer should._  
“You should sleep also. Idris surely has a room prepared for you already.” The sentence was slurred, a clear sign of exhaustion taking the better of him. Aragorn chuckled, knowing without doubt that the young maid he had once encountered in Minas Tirith hadn’t lost her mother’s fiery spirit and would probably haul him to his designated bed if need arose.  
“Idris, huh? And where is the lady of the house?” He asked, mostly to himself. With his eyes already closed, Faramir answered nevertheless.  
“In Rohan.” 

For some reason, that information struck the king as important, but he did not get a chance to ask anything else, for Faramir was soon fast asleep. Shaking his head at himself, Aragorn dragged the sheep-skin away from his body and set about re-examining the wound, lifting the bandages away carefully, taking in the raw flash that awaited him. The cut was long and deep, but those were not the only problems. It had started to fester, either because of the filth of the blade that had created it, or because of some unknown poison it had been dipped in. Aragorn knew not what to do - other than to clean it properly, which he had already managed. Seeing the still-angry wound, he cast a glance at the sleeping prince, before he placed his palm over the cut gently.

Numenorean blood and Elrond’s teachings was a very helpful combination, one he welcomed in moments such as that. 

-&-

When Faramir woke up next, it was dark outside again. He had slept through the rest of the night and for the whole of the next day, and, to his surprise, he had not been the only one sleeping. A weight on his legs had been what tore him out of his troubled dreams, and he blinked his eyes open blearily, noticing his king resting on his side, draped over the sheep-skin covering Faramir’s knees. One of Aragorn’s hands was placed on his thigh, fingers splayed and digging into the soft fur, and the prince couldn’t help but remember a night many months ago, with those same elegant fingers digging into the pillows and twisting in the sheets. 

_Ah, but it didn’t matter any longer,_ Faramir told himself sternly. That night had been a slightly inebriated accident, which had started and ended everything between them. _He_ had started and ended everything, and now he was here, being bestowed with more than he probably deserved, knowing well that he had crossed more borders than there were rivers in Arda. 

The king shifted a little, a tiny sigh leaving him, before he opened his eyes slowly. He looked tired, exhausted even - a fact that registered in Faramir’s mind with quiet alarm. Aragorn should not look like he had just risen from his grave, and yet, there was sluggishness in his moves, the effort it took for him to sit upright and keep his balance seemingly insurmountable. With wide eyes, Faramir watched as his friend gingerly rose from his spot and shuffled closer, sitting nearer and immediately checking the wound on his abdomen. Aragorn frowned at it, almost shocked to see the cut still present, and suddenly Faramir found it hard to breathe. 

“You used Elvish magic.” It was a statement as much as it was a question, and the prince stared in disbelief as Aragorn nodded simply, covering him with the bandages again. Feeling surprisingly dizzy, Faramir turned his head to the side, his throat tightening. How many nights had he spent drinking wine and hoping to drown his sorrows in it? How many times had the feeling of guilt over what had happened between them deprived him of sleep? How many evenings had passed by with him imagining Aragorn’s hands upon him, soothing hurts and chasing away pain with a careful caress? 

“You should not have done that.” The whisper that left the prince was no more than a breeze wafting through the room. It had gone completely dark by then, and so Aragorn stood up and rummaged around, lighting a few candles, then looked at him expectantly.  
“I did what I had to do.” Aragorn stated with the finality of a ruling king. “And you did not.”  
“I didn’t think-” And Faramir’s voice failed, running away from him like a startled horse. He choked on words that just wouldn’t come. There was a whole swarm of imaginary snakes wriggling between them, and all of them had one source. He swallowed heavily, blinking furiously to get rid of the sudden moisture misting his eyes. Casting his eyes down, he finally managed to squeeze out what had been weighing him down for so long. 

“I didn’t think you would come… _After that night…”_

Suddenly, Aragorn turned around as if slapped. He started to pace the length of the room, his face mostly cast in the shadows the candles placed close to the bed couldn’t illuminate. He walked slowly but with the purpose of a man driven by anger, his whole being seemingly vibrating. The risk of looking up at him was too broad a canyon for Faramir to cross, so he stayed as he was, studiously looking at his bedside table, his eyes absentmindedly watching the flickering flames. They seemed warm, little sparks flying off them here and there, a curious contrast to how cold he felt, even covered with the heavy fur still thrown over his body. The measured sound of Aragorn’s steps was like a heartbeat reverberating through the bedchamber, and Faramir frowned when it stopped abruptly. The lack of movement forced him to finally tear his gaze away from the candles and seek out his king. 

Aragorn was standing in front of a wall, so close to it that when he leaned forward slightly a moment later, his forehead came to rest against the cream-colored plaster. One of his hands rose, balled into a fist, and for a moment the prince thought he was going to punch the wall, but when the arm went down, it was with a resigned softness and a quiet _thunk_ that had no right to jar his nerves as much as it did. The king slumped forward, the slope of his shoulders sagging in defeat under the light tunic he was wearing, and Faramir blinked furiously again, shocked by the contradictory display right before his eyes. 

“Do you truly think so little of me?” Aragorn asked, his tone wavering.  
“My king…”  
“Did you really think I wouldn’t come? That I wouldn’t _care?”_ He did not seem to have heard Faramir, going on with a far-away voice. As Faramir watched, he turned around and slid down the wall, landing on the floor and curling his legs up, hiding his face in his hands with a tired sigh.  
“I did not think I had any right to ask this of you…” The prince whispered, trying to explain himself. He wished that he had been free to move around, wished for his wound to close already, so that he could get up and go to his king. 

_Go and do what, exactly?_ Shaking his head to dispel the mocking voice in his head, Faramir was forced to watch as Aragorn rubbed at his eyes tiredly, then let his hands fall into his lap, his gaze stuck somewhere mid-air, staring at nothing. He looked haunted, like one of the dead warriors that had helped him during the battle and about which Faramir had heard countless tales in the past months. 

“That night…” Aragorn paused to clear his throat, a wince surfacing slowly, marring his handsome features. “I don’t regret what happened. How could I? You have given me something I craved for a long time. I was _lonely,_ Faramir, I still _am._ I didn’t regret it even once…” He trailed off, and Faramir’s chest ached at the downcast gaze, at the thin line of his lips, almost painful in its portrayal of what was going on in his king’s heart.  
“I thought I have insulted you,” the prince murmured and, to his dismay, Aragorn nodded.  
“You did. By disappearing from my side and forcing me to find you already packed and ready to depart to Ithilien.” 

The king shook his head incredulously. That day was still fresh in his memory, even if almost a year had passed since. They had fallen into bed together, laughing over something, kissing and groping like a pair of stable boys on their day off. Maybe it had been the mead they had indulged in during the dinner, maybe it had been that strange magic that dictated the ways of love, Aragorn had not been sure, but when his prince had kissed him, the only thing he had been capable of had been rolling over and urging Faramir to take him. The night had been glorious and, as they had fallen asleep wrapped up in each other, Aragorn could have sworn he had felt the wispy tendrils of hope sneaking into his heart, planting warmth unlike any he had ever known. 

The morning had come like an avalanche of snow, pulling him out of bed on the ice-cold floor and chilling him to the bone when he hadn’t been able to find Faramir anywhere in the royal wing. He had met him at last in the stables, walking out of them and declaring that he had been on his way to say his goodbyes. Aragorn hadn’t been able to do anything else but stare at him, as Faramir explained his reasons. No amount of royal attitude or regal authority had been enough to explicate Faramir’s reasons. 

_“I need to go. I was just on my way to-”_ _  
__“Go where?”_ _  
__“Ithilien. I am sorry my king, but Minas Tirith is not a good place for me.”_ _  
__“Why?”_ _  
__“The reasons are aplenty, one of which is, I have tied myself to Eowyn. I shall marry her.”_

To this, Aragorn had found no answer, nor any further question. Dumbstruck, he had stood there, watching as his prince had trotted off on top of Hasufel, leaving Minas Tirith and Aragorn’s life without a backwards glance. 

He had resorted to writing letters then, long letters to which he had always gotten short replies. It had turned out to be tiring very quickly, and so Aragorn had ceased his underhand tries at figuring out the complexity of this impossible situation he had found himself in. His heart still yearned for his prince, but the wall that had arisen on the opposite side of Anduin had been too great to push his way through. His last hope Aragorn had lost, when he had inquired about the summer council, to which Faramir should have come. 

_“I cannot promise anything, sire, for Eowyn is with child and I may not have the means to visit Minas Tirith for a long time.”_

After that, Aragorn had stopped trying altogether. 

“My king?” Faramir’s voice, so tentative now, so careful, as if one unruly note in it could shatter Aragorn completely. The question tore him out of his thoughts, and he was surprised to discover Faramir watching him from the bed, propped on his elbows, his eyes as wide as he had ever seen them. Someone walked outside the room, and from the light gait, Aragorn recognized one of the maids. How curious, no sound of a child in a home such as this. It should have been filled with laughter and happiness, not with Beregond’s tears over Faramir’s feverish body. _The prince should have never left the White City,_ Aragorn thought bitterly. _All this should not have happened._

“Why did you leave?” The king asked back, his voice sour. He winced hearing his own tone, but waited patiently, craving the answers over the possibility of which his mind had been running around in circles for months now.  
“I had promised myself to Eowyn,” Faramir replied, confusion clear on his face. There was a stubborn set to his jaw, a trace of the same old defiance that Aragorn had seen back on that dreadful day, and he couldn’t help the acerbic laugh that rushed out of him.  
“Valar! Do not insult me now! I know there is naught that would have stopped you from breaking that promise had you wanted to.”  
“But-”  
“I remember what you said,” the king stated, staring right at Faramir, his gaze sharp and steely. “When we were in bed, not during… _Afterwards,_ with your arms around me and your mouth upon my neck, I remember what you whispered. Or is it that you could only face it in the middle of the night, hoping no one would ever learn about it, least of all your king?” 

To this, Faramir found no reply, swallowing heavily and looking to the side. Aragorn shook his head, then heaved himself up, gritting his teeth when his muscles protested and exhaustion caught up with him. He had healed Faramir’s wound, as much as his Numenorean blood allowed, as much as he could without sending himself into an early grave. The prince was out of immediate danger, and the cut was slowly starting to heal. Now he needed to seek some rest, lest he fell down, tripping over his own feet. With one last look at Faramir, he turned around and made for the door, resigning himself to a night in a strange bed. It promised to be as comfortable as his own, though, and Aragorn almost smirked at the irony of his situation. He had sent Arwen away to the Undying Lands, he had somehow chased his prince out of his life, too. It looked like cold sheets and lumpy pillows were to be his only reward for ruling the kingdom. 

In the silence permeating the room, he reached for the door handle, only to be stopped by Faramir’s quiet murmur.  
“People wouldn’t allow it.” There was a pause, and then the prince went on, noticing that he had Aragorn’s attention. “The people of Gondor would have never allowed such a union.”  
 _“Faramir…”_  
“No.” There was a soft rustle, Faramir shaking his head. “You and I both know that they wouldn’t have allowed it, that it would have been hard for you to have their approval. These things matter and they would have stopped any law you tried to enforce just to spite _us.”_  
“So you thought it better to run away?” Aragorn cast a glance over his shoulder, and Faramir could see hurt painted in his eyes, the depth of the king’s affection torn to shreds with his own hands.

With a heavy sigh that seemed to rattle his very core, Aragorn turned around and walked back to the bed, sitting on the edge of it, slumped. His gaze was stuck in the sheets, right next to Faramir’s hip, and although the prince couldn’t know what he was staring at, he could see the devastation clearly upon his king’s face.  
“I would have gone to another war with Sauron himself, had it meant that I would be allowed to keep you, Faramir. Do you not think I would have influenced the council to give me a free choice in these matters? Do you not think I know them enough by now to sway them however I want?”  
“I didn’t want to put you through this…”  
“For days, _weeks,_ I have been wondering what had caused you to run away. Halbarad I lost on a patrol. Your brother to the Ring. Haldir died in my arms at Helm’s Deep, and Arwen…” Aragorn shook his head, defeated. “Arwen I have sent away myself. But with you I was lost, not knowing where the fault was. What _had_ I done? And then you told me about Eowyn and the happiness Valar bestowed upon you. I know when I am beaten, Faramir, and I could not continue as I had.” Aragorn broke off, chuckling bitterly. “Of course, my heart would not listen to reason, and caused me to suffer still.” 

_“I’m sorry.”_  
“Nay. You chased happiness while I dwelt in the land of dreams. Only… I do not understand why I came here to see a shadow of you, slipping through my fingers like a ghost? Where is your wife and your child?” Aragorn asked, a strange feeling of protectiveness mixing with anger. 

What wife is that which lets her husband wither into nothingness? Had it not been for Faramir’s lamentable state of mind, had it not been for the way his spirit had waned, he wouldn’t have such problems with the wound. The body often listened to the mind, and when the mind was hurting, the body gave up. 

There was silence around them, and in it, Faramir’s voice sounded like cold wind blowing through hollow chambers of a forgotten palace.  
“The child is no more,” he said, carefully measuring words, as if he was afraid he would not be able to seize them. “Eowyn lost it shortly after I had written you that letter. She… _We_ couldn’t deal with it. A husband I might have been, but there is no section in the Great Library on how to mend a relationship broken thus, and so, I was far out of my depth as to what to do.” He explained gently, almost reverently. 

Aragorn startled, looking up at him sharply. Faramir’s eyes were like two stormy seas, reminding him of the nights he had spent in service of Gondor, praying to Ulmo not to drown them all along with their ship as waves had raged outside. But there were no tears misting Faramir’s gaze, and with sudden clarity, Aragorn realized that there was nothing left for his prince to cry over.  
“Faramir… where is Eowyn?” He asked, carefully, hoping not to bring up more grief than he knew how to handle. Faramir frowned, dragging his eyes back to him.  
“In Rohan. I…” The prince shook his head, as if he tried to dispel unwanted memories. “I have released her from her vows. She is no longer my wife and is free to do whatever she wants. She chose to go back to Edoras, and I shall respect her wish. I owe her that, at least.” 

Aragorn suddenly felt dizzy. What _was_ Faramir talking about?  
 _“Owe_ her?”  
“Aye. How else could I repay her for the troubles she had to put up with?” The prince asked sternly, defiance sparking in his eyes. “How can a husband take his wife to bed and think of another. How can a man think not of his woman, but of his friend when something extraordinary happened? _How can a warrior dream not of his lady, but of his king, and wake up with his name upon his lips?”_

Aragorn stiffened, hearing this heartfelt confession. Hope bloomed like butterflies in his chest, his body filling with warmth again, and he closed his eyes briefly, letting relief wash over him.  
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked in a whisper.  
“How could I?” Faramir went on. “The way I departed the city had left only scorched ground in my wake.”  
“I would have come.” The king stated. He leaned forward, shifting closer, until he was bent over Faramir, their gaze level, their faces a few scant inches apart. “I would have crawled through Mordor to be with you, had you only asked.” He said, and in the quietness of his voice, there was the severity of the king, the sureness of the Valar. Faramir swallowed, then licked his lips.  
“And now?” 

Instead of answering, Aragorn bent lower and took his mouth with his own, joining them in a kiss as brief as it was deep, reclaiming the prince with his lips and teeth, delving inside until he could taste the sweetness of Faramir’s tongue rubbing against his own. The kiss left him dizzy when they parted, and he leaned his forehead against Faramir’s, his breathing ragged, head swimming.  
“I love you,” Faramir whispered, his gaze boring into Aragorn’s, and the king smiled softly, just a small upturn of the corners of his mouth.  
“And I love you,” he replied, stealing another quick kiss, before he tried to pull away. His head protested with a dull throb that did not go unnoticed, and Faramir frowned at the wince surfacing on his features.  
“You are tired.” Faramir stated, needlessly, and just as needlessly, Aragorn nodded. 

Without another word, the prince shuffled away and to one side of the bed, making room for him to join. When Aragorn looked at him skeptically, he upturned one corner of the sheep-skin invitingly.  
“You should rest. I’m afraid you look worse than me…” But still, the king hadn’t moved, staring at him and the offered space in turn. “Please,” Faramir whispered, “I will beg if you want me to… Please, don’t leave.” 

This, at last, seemed to wake Aragorn, who shook his head hurriedly.  
“Ah, no! ‘Tis not that at all! I am merely not sure whether I can go all the way back to the room Idris prepared for me to retrieve my night robes.” He cast a tired look at the door, then let it slip over his own tunic and breeches. “I’m afraid I have not had the presence of mind to change since I arrived.”  
“I care not,” Faramir answered. “I could not bear being apart from you even for that long. And you look ready to fall over. Please, my king.” He added, hoping the title would freshen up Aragorn’s mind, even if briefly, and prompt him to move.

After a short internal debate that the prince could almost _see_ on Aragorn’s face, the king finally nodded, then took off his boots and socks. Bare-footed, he climbed into bed with his prince, lying carefully next to him, keeping a distance that ensured no further damage would come to the healing wound. The space between them was surprisingly cold, but Faramir felt marginally better when Aragorn’s hand crept down his arm and tangled their fingers together. Somehow, they managed to fall asleep swiftly. 

-&-

Aragorn woke to Anor glaring into his face, its light piercing and warm on his skin. It was long past morning, there was chirping outside the window, and he briefly wondered what kind of bird was still present in Ithilien in the middle of a snow-infused winter. But then, his pillow gave a quiet huff and the king’s thoughts left the animals be, focusing swiftly on here and now. _Here_ being the bed he was lying in, and _now,_ with Faramir in his arms. 

The prince was still asleep, his body relaxed and pliant, his face devoid of any stress. Aragorn must have moved during the night, for while Faramir remained as he was, on his back and covered up to his chin with a rich sheep-skin, Aragorn’s limbs had somehow wrapped themselves around him, a leg thrown over Faramir’s and a hand resting lightly right over the bandaged wound. His palm felt hot and Aragorn moved it away, his thoughts muddling over with the miracle of the Numenorean blood. 

It was entirely possible that he had been healing Faramir’s wound unconsciously, sending energy to mend the torn flesh while soundly asleep. 

Shaking his head at himself, feeling rested yet still a bit groggy, the king got up gingerly, intent on finding the bathing chamber and seeing to his own state. He was still wearing the same set of robes he had arrived in and, while Faramir so clearly didn’t care about his condition, he felt the need to wash keenly. 

He stepped on light feet, hoping not to wake the young prince, getting out of the room like a cat. There were people walking in the house - Faramir’s staff, most probably, but they were all downstairs, and Aragorn hoped they wouldn’t encounter him. It wouldn’t do to have everyone see him disheveled and dirty, he was still the king, after all. It would not be good to scare everyone in their own home.

Making his way down the spacious corridor, Aragorn finally found the bathing chamber, a few yards away from the room Idris had designated for him. A quick glance thrown over the bath, and he sighed in defeat, noticing that there was no water - hot or cold - to get clean with. With a shrug, he walked out and headed for the stairs, hoping the maids were as good as their employer to give their king a bit of a leeway. 

“Excuse me,” Aragorn said upon entering the kitchens. The two cooks turned around, startled, then bowed quickly, casting their gaze down simultaneously.  
“Your majesty!” One of them muttered, still not looking at him, and Aragorn almost shook his head at their antics. He was as far from being royalty as he could right now, and all he wanted was a bath. And breakfast, as his stomach reminded him, growling quietly at the enticing smells coming from the stove.  
“Is there perhaps a chance for some hot water for a bath?” He queried, relieved to see them both relaxing a bit, looking up at him finally.  
“Of course, sire! Would you like to take it inside or in the bathing house in the forest?” 

_A bathing house? He would need to talk to Faramir about it later…_

“Inside, please. I’ve seen a bathing chamber upstairs, but there was no water… I would also like to ask you for some clothes, for I fear I had been a bit neglectful in my preparation for this trip.” He grinned sheepishly, hoping to get a smile out of them. The cooks, however, remained unmoved, nodding and bowing again.  
“Of course, your majesty. Idris shall find what you require, and we’ll put a few buckets of water on the stove immediately.”  
“Thank you.” Aragorn said, then frowned when he spotted the surprised expressions marring their faces. It was almost as if they hadn’t expected him to thank them, and for some reason, it rubbed Aragorn up the wrong way. He might have been king, but he was not heartless. Everyone deserved kindness, especially if they catered to the needs of others. 

Nodding to himself, he went back to the bathing chamber, starting to work on the laces of his tunic. By the time he had it undone down the front - his fingers admittedly more sluggish than he had remembered them being - Idris bumbled in with a deep bow and a smile on her face. She was carrying a stack of clothes in her hands, a towel thrown over her arm, and she dumped the lot into a pile on one of the chairs present. Then she started to dig through the clothes, showing Aragorn different shirts and leggings, some of them dark green, some of them deep brown. 

“I was not sure as to your preference, sire, so I picked up a bit of everything. There are other robes, more formal ones, too, but I don’t think you’ll have a need for them right now,” she said, eyeing him from head to toe. Aragorn raised one eyebrow curiously.  
“Oh? And what makes you think that, young lady?” He asked, more playful than irritated. Those were Faramir’s people, and Idris he had known before she had followed her master to Ithilien. He knew well she never meant any harm and her insights had been useful in the past.  
“Nothing, your majesty!” She answered, bowing her head and trying - unsuccessfully - to hide her smile. “I merely meant that, going by your style,” she waved her hand in his general direction, “a pair of leggings and a nice shirt would be preferred.” 

Aragorn smiled then, sighing and relaxing further, reminded strangely of his foster-brothers. They had always had a keen insight into his heart and had always managed to cloak their meaning when bantering with him. Idris was doing much the same now, grinning at her feet and holding out a pair of soft, well-worn leggings and a creamy linen shirt with delicate flowers embroidered at the edges.  
“Why do I have the feeling that there is more to your words than you let on, Idris?” He asked, taking the offered clothes and laying them out on a cabinet nearby. She shrugged, watching him from the corner of her eye, then went to order the rest of the pile and gather it into her arms again.  
“You must be mistaken, my king, there is no way I would bring attention to you and our prince Faramir. Nor would I ever make a reference to the way his health improved so quickly.” She said, moving to the door. “I shall leave the rest of these clothes on your bed, sire, seeing as you’re not using it anyway.” 

And out she went, closing the door behind her before Aragorn could as much as form an adequate reply. He was left gaping at the spot she had disappeared from, an incredulous laughter building in his chest. With a forceful shake of his head, he went to check the contents of the cabinets, determined not to blush at the implications swirling through his mind while he waited for the water to be brought in. If Idris knew of him and Faramir, then the whole household did. Possibly the whole of Ithilien. 

As a page appeared carrying two buckets of hot water, Aragorn realized that he didn’t care. 

-&-

Faramir woke up to an empty bed and a sinking feeling to his stomach as soon as he realized that the spot next to him was vacated. The covers were undisturbed, still drawn up high over him, and for a heart-shattering moment, the prince thought he had dreamed the whole thing. Had he become so feverish as to imagine his king coming to his aid? _Was he mad enough to conjure Aragorn kissing him and sleeping right next to him?_

Trembling slightly, Faramir tugged the sheep-skin down and looked at the bandages covering his stomach, expecting them to be soaked-through with blood. When he encountered only soft, fresh linen, as blood-free and white as the snow outside his window, he allowed himself to relax a bit, looking around to confirm that he had not, in fact, become crazy. 

There was a mug on his bedside table, a twig sticking out of it, which spoke of some kind of a herbal infusion. There was also an overcoat thrown over the back of the nearby chair, and a sword lying on his desk, its pommel as characteristic as its owner. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, Faramir took in a few deep breaths, realizing only now he had been tense enough to forget what breathing was. Gingerly, he let his body fall back down on the bed, groaning when pain shot up his chest, his wound clearly not yet completely healed. It hurt less, though, and Faramir frowned, remembering Aragorn’s heated hands covering his wound. His king must have been tired after healing him with what Elvish magic he possessed and was probably sleeping in his own room. 

Somehow, that notion left Faramir with a queasy feeling deep in his gut, and he blinked rapidly, staring at the ceiling, hoping to dispel the sudden inflow of tears. _It served him right,_ he thought, _for leaving Aragorn in the same fashion last year._ He could still remember Aragorn’s broken expression upon their parting, could still recall the confusion in the eyes of his king, pain glimmering in them like the sharp glint of sword steel. He had thought he had suffered worse fate on that day, being the one leaving. Oh, had he known how it felt to be left behind, then! 

Shaking his head at himself, deciding that he had to _do something_ before their relationship suffered another blow, Faramir heaved himself up. Pain flared in his stomach immediately, making him gasp and wince, but he didn’t give up. He felt better, yes, and if his wound wanted to protest his moves, he would just have to grit his teeth and keep on going. 

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed proved to be a task as difficult as climbing the highest peaks of the Misty Mountains, but he was determined to see Aragorn and talk to him, so he pressed on. With shaky hands, he managed to support himself on the footboard, then made a few tentative steps towards the door. He felt stupidly proud when he swayed only once and had enough wherewithal to grab his desk for support before he toppled over. Panting, bowed over it and trying to regain some strength, he didn’t hear the door to his chamber opening, nor did he hear the footsteps coming closer. 

“What on Arda are you doing?!” Aragorn’s voice was stern and concerned at the same time, his hands frantic when they wound their way around Faramir’s chest. When the prince looked up, startled, he could see the stormy expression on Elessar’s face, his eyes equally worried and angry. He didn’t care. 

_Aragorn was there._

“I woke up without you… So I thought… I should go and… Find you…” Faramir panted out, his body protesting every breath he took. His ribs hurt unexpectedly, his head was swimming, and he didn’t resist when Aragorn turned him around and led him back to bed. After he had been pushed down and covered again, the king sat at the edge of the mattress, looking down at him with a concerned frown. Only now did Faramir notice that Aragorn was bare-chested, wearing only a pair of brown leggings. 

_Faramir’s own leggings,_ to be exact, and that thought made the prince blush slightly. The king watched him avidly, his hands busy checking first Faramir’s forehead, then his wound. After finding no damage and no fever, Elessar relaxed, his shoulders slumping slightly. His hair was wet, curling lazily at the base of his neck, and the prince longed to reach out and touch it, have it weaved around his fingers, like slippery silk for him to play with. He bit his lip and averted his gaze, his mind busy running over old memories. 

“What possessed you?” Aragorn asked, surprisingly gently for the turmoil he had appeared to be in just a few moments before. “You could have hurt yourself…”  
“I was concerned that you’ve left…” Faramir muttered in a reply, keeping the rest of his thoughts to himself.  
 _“Left?_ Why would I do that?” The king looked genuinely confused now, and Faramir could feel his cheeks reddening. He felt ashamed suddenly, vividly, for the way he had treated Elessar before, leaving him without as much as a backwards glance.  
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, going on when Aragorn’s confusion only deepened. “I’m sorry for leaving like I had. I know now what it feels like…” _And you didn’t have me afterwards, like I have you now._

Shaking his head tiredly, sending his curls into a very comely disarray, the king stood up and reached for a piece of linen lying on the desk, which turned out to be one of Faramir's tunics. Tugging it on over his head, Aragorn climbed into the bed and next to him, sliding under the covers, settling himself on his side. He arranged the pillows so that he was comfortable, then opened his arms widely, inviting his prince in. Faramir didn’t hesitate even for a moment, shuffling closer carefully until his body rested in the safe cradle of Aragorn’s hands, a kiss to his forehead sealing their arrangement just like Aragorn’s ring sealed official documents. 

One notion kept nagging on Faramir’s mind, though, and as he nuzzled his face into his king’s neck, breathing in the scent of freshly-washed skin, he decided to voice his thoughts and the question swirling through them.  
“What happens now, my king?” He asked, his words half-muffled by the collar of the soft tunic Aragorn was wearing. It smelled of lavender and rosemary, his favorite combination, made all the more enticing when it was woven around his liege. The king sighed, his body relaxing.  
“Now, I think, we shall call for some breakfast, seeing as you’ve lost too much weight.” As if to prove his point, Aragorn spread his hands over Faramir’s back, fingers following the shape of bones and sinews through the shirt and the bandages the prince was wearing. 

“No, I mean… later. What happens later?” Faramir clarified, closing his eyes in delight when Aragorn’s hands picked up a soothing rhythm along his spine, rubbing lightly over his linen-covered skin.  
“Later?” The king echoed. “Why, I believe we shall sleep some more, make sure you are properly healed, and then we could perhaps see about that bathing house you have outside…” 

Faramir’s eyes opened wide, and he blinked in surprise, having completely forgotten the little hut he had constructed over six months ago. It was standing near the line of the forest, a small and comfortably furnished bathing house meant to stand-in for a steam-room, one of the few luxuries he had allowed himself to have in Ithilien. He had been sharing it with the rest of his household, pleased that his staff liked to go there on occasion to relax after a long day. There was a private room inside too, however, meant solely for him. A room they could probably use to-

“You’re blushing.” Aragorn’s voice was a lot raspier than it should have been, murmuring right into his ear when the king leaned in. “Your cheeks are hot,” Aragorn stated, before Faramir had had a chance to ask for an explanation.

And then, before he could react, there were lips pressed right over his cheekbone, cool and soft against his flesh, the scrape of beard a delicious contrast around them. He sighed when Aragorn’s mouth traveled lower, one of the king’s palms migrating to Faramir’s head and tilting it back, righting the awkward angle and allowing Elessar to kiss him fully. The still-damp hair fell on his forehead and obscured his vision, and Faramir found himself rolled gently to his back again, Aragorn’s body settling over him on hands and knees, careful not to touch his wound. The sudden lack of contact between them infuriated the prince, but he was not left wanting for long, as the king swiftly pushed away any clothes that still lingered between them, before his warm fingers traveled over Faramir’s skin in a gentle caress. 

They turned demanding soon, healers hands coaxing pleasure out of him as efficiently as they banished hurts and chased away pain, and Faramir was left panting helplessly in their wake, moaning softly when Aragorn busied himself with their southern realms. It didn’t take long after that, and when it was done and finished, the prince couldn’t seem to get close enough to his king. He pressed nearer when Elessar collapsed carefully next to him, tucking his face between Aragorn’s neck and shoulder, kissing the soft skin in time with his king’s shivering breaths, until an arm arose and wrapped around his middle tenderly, keeping him secured against Aragorn’s side. 

It proved to be an almost heroic task to get up shortly after, their cosy laziness interrupted by Idris and a tray of breakfast. And if the young maid kept on grinning at them for the rest of the week, they tried not to dwell too much on the way she had found them then, wrapped around each other in a nest of blankets. It had been Aragorn’s fault, too, for he had requested breakfast as soon as he had been done with his bath, a fact he had promptly forgotten once he had stepped into the bedchamber and encountered his steward walking around unaided. 

“Will you come back?” Aragorn asked later, around a mouthful of ham, his eyes flickering up to meet Faramir’s gaze. The prince frowned, looking a bit surprised. They were sitting at his desk, wrapped in thick bathrobes, Aragorn on a chair and Faramir in a spacious armchair packed with pillows for comfort. They were halfway done with their breakfast, a delightful composition consisting of pickled cucumbers, ham and white cheese, complemented by fresh bread which Aragorn had decidedly taken a liking to.  
“Come back?” Faramir asked, his eyebrows shooting up. He resisted the urge to glance at the bed they had vacated just recently.  
“To Minas Tirith. Will you come back to dwell there with me?” The king clarified, cutting off a piece of cheese. Faramir stared for a moment.  
“I didn’t think you’d want me there…”

The mumbled reply caused Aragorn to let go of the fork he was holding, in favor of grasping Faramir’s hand.  
“Of course I want you there!” He said with a sigh, a small shake of his head reminding Faramir of his brother. Boromir would often carry out a whole conversation in his head, shaking it here and there to disagree with something that appeared in his thoughts.  
“I thought… with the way I left…” the prince bit his lip, forgetting food for a moment.  
“I care little for the way you left. I have you now, do I not?” Aragorn smiled, fingers squeezing Faramir’s gently. “If I keep on having you with me, I shall not care for anything else.” 

The proposition was made with hopeful eyes and a warm heart that Faramir could almost _feel._ He nodded, not in need of any time to think the offer over. It was what he had wanted for a long time now, something he had denied himself out of fear that the fault of sundering them had been his.  
“I will.” He promised, watching in amazement as Aragorn’s whole posture changed. In a heartbeat, he seemed to relax completely, a happy smile blooming on his face and shining brighter than Anor itself. 

“Only,” the prince added, biting his lip again and looking down at himself, inclining his head at his stomach. “I am not sure I can travel yet.”  
“Ah! ‘Tis nothing!” Aragorn assured him quickly. “Imrahil is keeping Gondor standing, and stand she shall. We can allow ourselves some time here yet, make sure you are completely healed before we travel back. Besides,” he added, a merry twinkle appearing in his eyes, making him look like a young lad, “I fully intend to see that bathing house for myself, with your guidance preferably.” 

To that, Faramir could only nod, hoping he wasn’t blushing too strongly. Smiling, suddenly feeling too warm in his robe, he tried to focus on finishing his breakfast. He had a feeling his king would make it his personal goal to keep a close eye on him during his recovery - a happy coincidence, seeing as Faramir unexpectedly found that he didn’t mind being confined to bed - not if the bed contained his king also, keeping the prince in good health and better spirits. 

Delighted beyond reason, Faramir set to eating some cheese, his mind busy weaving dreams about a bright future for the both of them. 


End file.
